


bright lights with no regrets

by earnmysong



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Comic-Con, F/M, I Don't Even Know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:10:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2038458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earnmysong/pseuds/earnmysong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Given that he’d just offered to help her, that wouldn’t be an excellent first impression.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	bright lights with no regrets

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses for this except that Comic Con obviously killed off some brain cells. [Here, look!](http://earnmysong.tumblr.com/post/93019761383/nina-dobrev-and-ben-mckenzie-leaving-the-comic-con#notes) Also, the interwebs tell me that any shred of hope for this has already been killed dead. What can you do? :D 
> 
> In case it needs to be said: the people are real. The events, however, are decidedly less so. As in, not the slightest bit.

\----

Nina hopes, however pointlessly, no one asks how she and Ben became an item, got their start, went from friends to more than, or any of the million other ways someone can phrase an inquiry about the beginning of whatever this is. 

(Not that they really are any of the above yet; they certainly seem to be headed in that direction though and, if they end up happening, she knows exactly how she’ll respond to the media professional who breaks the seal – _he and Paul Wesley go way back_ , as if that’s the most detailed explanation in the world, connects the dots between point a and point b perfectly – and that the truth is a bit more complicated.)

\----

“You need help?” a familiar voice asks, but Nina can’t place it to save her life and it’s too much effort to look up, to figure out if this day has driven her insane enough that strange men are starting to seem like people she knows.

(Making no move to get out of LA’s latest attempt to drown its population probably makes it seem like she does – and not a small amount of it.)

She hurls an arm out in front of her, toward where her car is sitting, once and for all smoking itself into uselessness. It occurs to her only after she does this that she has no idea where the person talking to her is sitting – standing, whatever he’s doing – and she could have inadvertently knocked him out or something.

(Given that he’d just offered to help her, that wouldn’t be an excellent first impression.)

Yanking the cords of her sweatshirt, she cinches the hood tighter before she pulls her head out of her lap.

As soon as she sees his (injury-free) face, she understands why her brain went where it went. There’s no way she’s calling him Ryan Atwood; that’s all her fried synapses are giving her at the moment, though, despite the fact that she distantly remembers he’s one of Paul’s closest friends and she probably does know his name. Skipping over the issue entirely, she opts for a tearfully nasal, “Know any mechanics?”

Ben pops the hood, ducks under the cloud of vapor that’s still going strong, turns back to her after a few seconds. “Did you try to fix it yourself?”

“I figured it couldn’t be that hard, you know?” She abandons her spot on the curb, moving to stand next to him and gazing forlornly at the remains of her engine. “The thing started to combust before my eyes, though, so I’m fairly sure I was wrong. Turns out rearranging wires at random?” He nods in time with her words, hearing but not fully absorbing – he’s still trying to figure out what the hell she did – “Not what you’re supposed to do.”

That last bit of information makes everything click and then Ben’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe. He swallows it when he notices she’s not exactly seeing the humor in the situation, is actually on the verge of sobbing, gnawing her lip like she would chew a piece of gum to keep the tears where they should be. 

Her strategy is solid, at least until his arms circle her, an apology wrapped in physical contact. 

(All bets are off when hugs are involved.)

\----

Nina forwards him a photo of her replacement mode of transportation in reply to his ‘update on the wheels situation?’ request, delivered by an extremely confused Paul. 

(In the next breath, he’s giving her Ben’s number and asking to be left out of this particular loop.) 

\----

When Nina gets to San Diego, she snaps a picture of the first _Gotham_ poster she comes across, Ben's face enlarged to five times its normal size. She makes sure to include herself in it, arms outstretched and palms up as she shrugs, before she sends it his way. (She’s keeping tradition alive here.)

“Panel’s at five,” he rushes when she picks up on the second ring, answering her visual question. “You?”

“I want to say it’s three, but don’t quote me on that.” She waves away his laugh like he’s in the room. “Shut up, I’ll get it together eventually.”

“I applaud your spontaneity.” There’s a crackle as he holds his phone away from his ear so he can hear whatever message is being given to him. “I have to go,” he tells her. “I’m being summoned.”

“Good luck with that.”

She can’t help but smile at his muttered, “Yeah, thanks.”

\----

“You survived!” Nina shouts, hugging him, when she whirls around at a shoulder tap to find him in front of her at the after-party. “Sorry for the volume. I can never hear for, like, a day and a half after this thing.”

“I did,” he affirms, reaching around her to grab two cookies off the table. He hands her one and she holds it against his for a second, toasting. “Until next year.”


End file.
